


A Secret in the Glass Room

by MykEsprit



Series: Dramione Delectables [20]
Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: DFW Tropes Fest, F/M, Masturbation, Trope: Voyeurism
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-10-31
Updated: 2018-10-31
Packaged: 2019-08-11 16:59:05
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,152
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16479386
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MykEsprit/pseuds/MykEsprit
Summary: After placing a surveillance charm on the mirror in his study, Hermione watches Draco. He finds a scarf she left behind...and what he does next makes her squirm.





	A Secret in the Glass Room

**Author's Note:**

> Disclaimer: Harry Potter belongs to JK Rowling.
> 
> Thanks to CourtingInsanity and the rest of the mods at DFW for hosting this event! Love to my lovely alpha mhcalamas and to MrsRen for helping me think through this trope!

Despite the heat of the fire, the mirror above the mantle felt cool under her fingertips.

“You’ve never struck me as vain.” Draco Malfoy prowled into the study, his gaze landing heavily on her reflection.

Hermione cleared her throat. In the glass, her likeness tinged red. “You ought to get help.” She swiped her forefinger across the smooth surface. “This place is covered with dust.”

Draco tutted. “I did have help. _You_ ,”—he raised a blond eyebrow—“sent them away.”

With a scoff, she turned and faced him. “You have more than enough money to hire a full house staff.”

He crossed his arms over his chest. His muscles tensed under the thin slate jumper. “Been snooping through my financials, Auror Granger?”

His eyelids lifted minutely as she came closer. “It’s part of my job, Mr. Malfoy,” she reminded him.

His expression shuttered. “You already track my every movement at MPC. And you come here every night to keep an eye on me,”—his gaze traveled down her body before snapping back up to her face—“not that I mind. But if you think I’ll hire household staff just so you can have round-the-clock surveillance on my property, you underestimate my intelligence.” He smirked. “I’m not just a pretty face, you know.”

“No,”—she took a step in his personal space, jutting her chin up to meet his gaze—“You’re also a magnet for trouble.”

“Hmm.” His smirk morphed into a feline grin, grey eyes flitting over her features. “That I am.”

Hermione stamped the urge to pinch the bridge of her nose.  Instead, she held out a palm and gave him a pointed look.

Draco reached into his pocket and pulled out a scroll. “There. As promised—my father’s list of connections in Paris. Took me ages to find.” He angled his head down, and at this proximity, she caught a whiff of his citrus cologne. “Am I to be rewarded for my efforts, Auror Granger?” he whispered.

Hermione plucked the yellowed parchment from his loose hold. “The Ministry thanks you for your compliance.”

After a scornful huff, he stalked across the carpet. He folded onto an armchair opposite the wide-mouthed fireplace. “Anything else I can do to help out the Ministry tonight? Sign over my inheritance? Pledge the soul of my future firstborn?”

“That’s all for tonight. Your future spawn can keep his soul for now.” Hermione strode to the fireplace, collecting the cloak she had draped on the high back of Draco’s chair. With a handful of Floo powder in hand, she glanced over her shoulder. “Are you expecting any guests?”

A corner of his lips quirked. “No need to be jealous, love. You’re the only woman in my life.”

Her eye-roll was punctuated with a derisive snort. “I’ll be back tomorrow. As usual.” She threw the glittery powder on the hearth and stepped inside. The fire erupted into an emerald blaze, licking the periphery of her vision. “Behave.”

He gave her a casual salute as she transported away from Malfoy Manor.

* * *

Hermione stepped out of the flames and meandered down narrow corridors. The Auror Department was recently renovated, though one would never have guessed by its sole-scuffed tile and chipping paint. When she reached an unmarked door at the end of a hallway, she eased it open and marched into the dim room.

“Did it take?” she asked Auror Simms, whose eyes were glued to a mirror—one of a dozen spanning a wall of the small space.

Simms nodded. “I’ve seen and heard everything from the moment you enchanted the mirror.” Her eyes narrowed with amusement. “That Draco Malfoy knows how to turn on the charm, doesn’t he? How you can spend so much time with the man and not melt into a puddle at his feet?”

“Two reasons, Auror Simms. One: I’m a consummate professional.” Hermione fixed the junior Auror with a stern glare. “And, two: by remembering that Draco Malfoy is _not_ the charmer—he’s the snake.”

Simms’ gaze fluttered to the scratched tile. “My apologies, Auror Granger. My remarks were…uncouth.”

While Hermione felt a stab of pity for the younger witch, her severe demeanor remained firm. “Go take your break,”—her gaze pointed to the door—"and come back when you’re ready to act appropriately.”

The Auror hustled out of the room, mumbling a hurried apology just as the door squeaked shut behind her.

As her scurries disappeared down the hall, Hermione sank into an empty seat. At times, she hated her role as the strict mentor—but she and Harry kept their Aurors to the highest of standards. With the two of them as Deputy Heads, the Aurors once again held the trust and respect of the community.

Still, it was a _tenuou_ s gift of trust, one a single misstep could take away. They drilled fear in their Aurors—and in their various criminal informants. Those select wizards and witches who traded stints in Azkaban for valuable information; those whose lives Hermione’s team watched meticulously.

In the past week, she implemented the Glass Room. They charmed mirrors in their informants’ homes—strategic ones within parlors, dining halls, studies. Rooms in which conversation flowed best...and discussions among informants and their dubious guests _always_ held the Ministry’s interest.

Hermione glanced at the newest addition to their collection—a rectangular mirror lined with silver filigree. Its twin hung above the mantle of Draco Malfoy’s study. 

Through the glass, Draco remained where she had left him—lounging on his tan leather armchair, gazing deeply into the fire. His knuckles pressed against his lips; a worried wrinkle just above the root of his nose deepened.  The firelight bathed him in gold, and he sat in the lonely study like Apollo at the Palais Royal.

As irritating as the bastard was, he was beautiful in repose.

He shifted in his seat, and his expression twisted. Reaching behind him, he pulled something wedged between his back and the firm cushions—red cloth traced with geometric gold patterns.

Hermione’s hand flew up to her bare neck. The object in Draco’s hand was her favorite silk scarf. She had taken it off along with her cloak when she entered Draco’s warm study. In her hurry to leave, she had forgotten it.

His eyes gleamed as he reached the same conclusion. With a vindictive grin, he wadded the cloth and angled his arm, aiming for the fire. Hermione lamented the impending loss of her best scarf.

Draco froze. Then he turned his palm up, and he gazed at the cloth with perplexity. His eyelids fell shut; he took a deep breath.

Curious, Hermione leaned over the table to get a better look. 

With eyes still closed, Draco parted his lips and exhaled. He raised the vibrant cloth closer to his face—took a slow, deep inhalation. His low, rumbling grunt shot straight to the base of her abdomen.

He buried his nose in the silk scarf; his body molded into the sharp angle of the armchair. He shifted, restless on the wide cushion. 

Hermione’s gaze trailed from his pained expression to the tensed muscles of his shoulders, down to his lap—where his arousal strained against his dark pants.

“Fuck,” she whispered. Her heart thudded in her ears.

“Fuck,” he echoed. “ _Granger_.”

Her body froze—her mind raced. Did he hear her whisper? _Did he know she was watching?_

A few moments’ observation reassured her. Draco’s eyelids were squeezed shut, the silk scarf still in hand. He ran it lightly across his lips. His nostrils flared.

Her tongue flicked over her bottom lip.

Draco stretched the cloth between his hands; turned it over, examined it. It twisted between his fingers until it resembled a short rope. He wrapped it around his hand, crossing it over his palm in an ‘X’.

He brought his hand once again to his face. He parted his lips and inhaled, devouring her scent. His head fell back against the armchair with a soft thump.

So enthralled was she at his exquisite expression that she nearly missed the movement of his unbound hand. Belatedly, her eyes darted down to where it was busy on his lap.

His member sprung from the confines of his clothes. It stood, thick and long; the light flickered over its smooth, pale skin.

Hermione’s gaze snapped to the door—still closed. Simms would be back any moment. She rushed to the door and reached for the handle, intending to escape the room until the episode was over.

Another growl—and then, “Granger.”

Her fingers flipped the lock; it secured with a sharp clink.  Hermione paused, staring at the plain wooden door knowing this went against propriety. Had she caught another Auror doing this, they would be swiftly reprimanded.

And yet—he was alone. So was she; in a locked room, sound-proofed. No witnesses.

A secret.

Slowly, she made her way back to the chair.

With eyes still shut, his fingers wrapped around his shaft, bound hand stacked on top of the other. He stroked up gingerly—hissed. “Fuck.” Yet he stroked again, his fingers squeezing tighter.

Her red scarf glided up the head of his shaft, grazing the top, likely soaking up the bead of fluid that collected.

Hermione bit her lip before a moan escaped. Her abdominal muscles clenched; her legs crossed at her knees.

Draco’s breaths huffed in rhythm with each stroke. His hands slid up and down his member without hindrance. Hermione wondered if she had missed him charming lubricant on his hands or if her scarf was just silky enough for the sensation to be pleasurable.

He enjoyed it—it was evident in the slackness of his jaw, the parting of his lips. It was in the furrowed muscles of his brow, the way his eyelids blinked open revealing glazed eyes.

She shuffled in her seat, her aroused state making comfort impossible. She stuck the tip of her thumb between her lips, which craved for something—anything—for stimulation.

As his breathing became erratic, hers followed suit. He stroked faster; her inner thighs pressed together. Her fingers yearned to reach down, find her own release—but it was a line she would not cross. Not inside the Ministry. Not while she watched her CI pleasure himself with an article of clothing she inadvertently left at his place, one that held the crisp apple smell of her perfume but now probably smelled like citrus and spice and musk.

Her hands clutched the armrests. Her gaze adhered to the silver-framed mirror, feasting on the sight of Draco Malfoy at the brink of ecstasy. 

His strokes became rougher, more urgent. His lips pulled back in a snarl. “Granger. Granger.  _Gran-ger_ ,” he chanted low. With a final grunt, he covered his flushed head with his scarf-bound palm. He shuddered, thrusting into the cloth as he rode the wave of pleasure.

Hermione moaned as she watched Draco empty himself onto her silk scarf. Her body was desperate for a release of its own. “Fuck.” She hissed.“ _Dammit_.”

The jingling doorknob jolted her, dousing her with ice. 

Simms rapped on the door. “Auror Granger?”

Hermione glanced at the mirror. Lazily, Draco waved his wand in the air, muttering a cleaning charm. “Auror Simms? Is that you?” she asked, buying some time for the spell to work.

“Yes.” The voice hesitated.

Draco tucked himself back in his clothes. Hermione got up, muscles groaning and nerves frayed. She cracked the door open. “Auror Simms.” Her voice was breathless.

Simms peered at her curiously. “Everything all right?”

“Perfectly fine.” Hermione glanced over her shoulder. Draco had gotten up from the armchair. The red scarf was folded into a square; he tucked it inside his pocket with an indulgent smile.

“Auror Granger?”

Her head flicked back to the junior Auror. “Yes?” she asked roughly. She slid through the narrow opening, closing the door firmly behind her.

Simms’ eyebrows inched up her forehead. “Should I go back in there?”

“No need.”  With her wand, Hermione traced a locking spell over the door. She straightened her Auror robes. “You’re dismissed for the night, Auror Simms.” She gave the witch a brisk nod and marched down the hall.

Simms trailed her. “Um...Auror Granger? Where are you going?”

Hermione halted in her tracks. It was a good question—one she had also wondered when she locked the door to the Glass Room. “I…looked over the list of Lucius Malfoy’s contacts. I need to get answers from his son right away.” She adopted a hard mask. “I do hope you learned your lesson tonight, Auror Simms. When you come back tomorrow, I expect only professionalism from you.”

Before the witch could respond, Hermione whipped around and stalked down the hall. Hypocrisy curdled her stomach—but it was nowhere near the ache further below.

With determined strides, she made her way to the nearest fireplace. She had a scarf to retrieve.

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks for reading! Comments/Kudos are appreciated!


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